


Floating

by way1203



Series: Struggling Birds [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Depression, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson is Not Okay, Hurt Dick Grayson, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Protective Jason, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 06:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12102438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/way1203/pseuds/way1203
Summary: Dick didn't like to show his cracks. He was the funny one. The family-oriented one. The one who kept his shit together when everyone in the family was rapidly losing theirs. He smiled often. Laughed off verbal barbs from his brothers and teammates. He showed that he was okay so no one could ask if he was okay, because if they asked if he was okay, he'd lose it.





	Floating

**Author's Note:**

> Writing my way through my own depression and I figured I'd explore how hard it might be for Dick. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Mentions of depressive and suicidal thoughts. If that's triggering to you, stop now.**

Dick sat in a tree and gazed at the night sky. If he wanted to, he could slide right off the branch he'd perched himself on, forget his muscle memory and allow gravity to send his body crashing to the ground at full force. He could do it. But he wouldn't. No. Instead, he'd sit here. Just sit and allow the balmy city air to ease his intrusive thoughts.  
  
Dick didn't like to show his cracks. He was the funny one. The family-oriented one. The one who kept his shit together when everyone in the family was rapidly losing theirs. He smiled often. Laughed off verbal barbs from his brothers and teammates. He showed that he was okay so no one could ask if he was okay, because if they asked if he was okay, he'd lose it.  
  
He'd become something akin to a second parent to Damian, constantly tearing the younger Wayne away from fights with Red Robin. Blüdhaven fell under his jurisdiction, as did Gotham when things got heavier than usual. Then there were Bruce's expectations, or rather the expectations the mentor instilled in Dick when he was a teen that had quickly become part of his inner voice in his adult life. He pushed himself to work harder, be smarter, and be stronger.

If Damian lifted more, Dick added more weight to his own load _and_ hit the uneven bars harder.

If Tim learned how to hack an infrastructure, Dick educated himself on technological advances _and_ reviewed chemical compounds frequently utilized by rogues.

If Jason figured out a way to shoot three people at once or stab an opponent effortlessly, Dick determined a way to better utilize his Eskrima sticks _and_ worked on his hand-to-hand combat.

His abilities needed to reflect the fact that he was the eldest Wayne son and first Boy Wonder. He had to prove to his brothers, Bruce, the cities, and himself that there was a reason why Batman still called on Nightwing.  
  
It was a lot of pressure.

Pressure that Dick mostly (admittedly) placed on himself. Pressure that deeply affected him. He could usually keep a lid on it. He'd limit his crying to when he was in the shower. He made sure that his anxiety manifested in the form of him being a mild mother hen to Tim and Damian. When he couldn't snap that metaphorical lid over his Tupperware container of stress, the result was never good.  
  
Depression came for Dick Grayson often enough that it was something he'd come to expect. It always captured him on and around his parents' death anniversary, then hovered in the background throughout the rest of the year, waiting for a moment when Dick was overwhelmed to pull him into its depths and slowly strangle the light out of him. Sometimes he could get himself through it without it getting too bad. Other times he couldn't.  
  
Once, when he was a teen, his depression advanced to the point where Bruce made him see a therapist for a few months. The Dark Knight didn't feel comfortable with Dick's recklessness on patrol, or the indifference clouding his eyes at home. There'd been talks of placing him on medication.  
  
When Dick went away to college, his depression came around again and he failed to attend his courses for nearly two weeks. The university's counseling services became mandatory weekly appointments. He took a pill that made it better for a year and a half until one day it didn't anymore. Dick didn't bother finding a replacement medication; he just didn't have time to deal with finding the right antidepressant when things in his vigilante life were getting out of hand and he, being the Level-headed Adult Robin™, found himself picking up pieces in Gotham more often. (Just once, why couldn't he be like Jason and fuck off and not care that he'd fucked off?) Still, Dick found himself incredibly thankful for laws that prevented the school from disclosing the nature of his mental health and medications to Bruce and Alfred.  
  
Another time, Batman arrived in the cave to find Dick crying and Alfred consoling the boy. Dick wasn't sure where the tears came from, he just knew they wouldn't stop. He worked himself up and started hyperventilating. When Bruce sent Alfred away, Dick found himself surrounded by a cape and muscle, his mentor—his father—telling him over and over that it was okay. That deep voice that could send shockwaves of fear into the worst criminals (and disobedient birds) lost its edge and became a soothing blanket for Dick's mind. He couldn't keep bottling his emotions. He would stay the night, calm himself down, rest. Shush. It would be okay. Bruce understood.  
  
More recently, Dick nearly drank himself to death. Jason, the family portrait of a Not Okay Robin™, noticed a man who looked a hell of a lot like the perfectionist known as Dick Grayson slurring and stumbling out of a bar with a bottle he'd snagged for the road. Dick was thankful it was Red Hood who found him; he wouldn't have to worry about Jason telling anyone about his failed attempt at making everything hurt just a little less. His little brother got him inside his current safe apartment, gave him a bin and water, and hid the bottle. Dick told him about the two pints of beer and three shots of tequila and the sips from the vodka Jason had snatched from his hand and his empty stomach. Dick knew that Jason knew that Dick wasn't a drinker. Jason also knew Dick was a lightweight, and the beers alone would've been more than enough to make him drunk. That, and the fact that the ex-Boy Wonder wasn't one that could handle hard liquor, legitimately worried the younger man. Jason stayed with him until he sobered up and through the twenty-four hours in which Dick endured the worst hangover of his life.  
  
Dick took a deep breath. This time his depression brought him an overwhelming sense of numbness and he needed to feel something. If he didn't allow himself to plummet to his death, he could at least fall and break something. He'd feel that familiar twinge of a bone needing setting. It'd linger for hours. If Batman asked, and he would, he'd say he just wasn't paying attention, or that he'd lost his grip on the rings or pummel horse.

No.

The lie would be obvious.

Maybe he could beat a criminal until his knuckles bled and cracked. No, he wouldn't be able to summon enough blind rage for that.  
  
He hated this...this cloud over his life. For him, there was a blurred line between relapsing and recurrence. Dick thought he had a handle on things, that he'd recovered. Given the more frequent recurrences, he was left to wonder if he ever even recovered at all. If he just relapsed every single time because he failed at learning how to handle his mental health twice. Dick's eyes burned.  
  
_You're fine. Stop crying. You're fine._  
  
You're not fine, just cry. You need to let it out. It's not your fault.  
  
_You have to stop being weak._  
  
You're not weak. You've had a lot on your plate. It's okay.  
  
_It's not okay._  
  
It's okay.  
  
Dick let go of the branch and landed safely on the ground. The hazy memories of that night with Jason came to the forefront of his mind.  
  
_Look, I know we've had our differences, but both of us are fucked up. Hell, anyone who wears any variation of that red suit is fucked up, or will wind up fucked up. You should know that I understand, better than anyone, where you're coming from. I know how it feels. Call me the next time you lose your shit and think it's okay to get shitfaced because you're going through some shit. I'll listen. Depression's a bitch._  
  
Depression _was_ a bitch.  
  
Dick slipped back into his apartment and sat on the couch. Jason's latest phone number stared up at him from a crumpled bottom corner of a magazine that had been hastily torn away by its owner. Dick keyed them in and, as the glowing digits seared into his eyes, he almost didn't tap the green button. He'd sat in silence all day so the ringing was like a jackhammer.    
  
"... _What_?" groaned Jason, his voice muffled by what Dick assumed was a pillow or blanket.  
  
Dick swallowed. Guilt surged through him. Was he bothering him? Maybe he shouldn't have called.  
  
"Who is it? If it's one of those—"  
  
"Jason...I..." He couldn't make out the words. _I need you. I need someone. I could use another human being around me so I don't have to listen to my own thoughts. I thought about killing myself again. I want to disappear again. I want to run away. Help. Me_. " _...Jay_."  
  
"Don't do anything stupid. I'm on my way."  
  
Dick tossed the phone aside. He dropped his face into his palms. No one told him it would be this hard. No one told him it could hurt like this. He hoped that Tim and Damian didn't or wouldn't have it this bad. It wasn't fair. As Dick sobbed, he lost count of the minutes. He stayed on the couch because he didn't have the energy to go anywhere else and, if he did, he wasn't one hundred percent sure he wouldn't hurt himself. Jason didn't knock, not that Dick expected him to, but he _did_ use the spare key instead of kicking the door in. He locked them in, set his helmet beside his keys, and entered the apartment. He noticed the broken bird on the couch and settled in next to him.  
  
"I got here as fast as I could," said Jason.  
  
Dick tried to say something but nothing came out. How _dare_ he not thank someone for coming to see about him? His shoulders hunched as he brought his chest closer to his knees. Jason touched his brother's back and lifted his phone to his ear.  
  
"Yeah, can I get a large with everything on it? Yep. And garlic knots..." Jason gave the address and ended the call before returning his attention to Dick. "I'm starved and, knowing you, you're probably due for something."  
  
"I'm not hungry," croaked Dick.  
  
"You have to eat. It'll make you feel better." When older man pulled him into a tight hug, Jason reciprocated, patting him on the shoulder blade twice. "I can't be the only one who's told you this, but here goes anyway. You don't have to be so damn strong all the time, you know?"  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"You got nothing to be sorry for."  
  
"Yes, I do." Dick sat back with a sniff. "I'm a failure. I'm a disappointment. I try so hard all the time and I can never get any better, any smarter, any stronger. I'm weak, Jay. I have to call someone to pick me up cause I'm not even capable of doing that myself—"  
  
" _Hey_!"  
  
He stopped. There was anger threaded through Jason's features. Great, he couldn't even vent right. Dick wiped his eyes. He had to dry up the tears. He was so pathetic.  
  
" _I said stop, Richard_." Jason noticed him flinch and sighed. "You can't beat yourself up like that. It doesn't help anyone and it only makes you feel worse. You can't feed those thoughts. You're not a failure. You're not a disappointment. You're strong, you're smart, you're not weak. Your head is telling you these things to bring you down. You have to combat that. It's hard but, Dick, it's the only way you can get out of this."  
  
It was hard. It was incredibly hard. He didn't even believe Jason's affirmations. Dick didn't know what to do, or how to feel better. He was wasting so much time. He should be practicing, he should be on patrol, he should be making himself useful. Instead he was crying on the couch with Jason waiting for a pizza to arrive that he'd likely eat half of because, damn, he was really hungry now.  
  
"Stop."  
  
Dick blinked. "I'm not doing anything."  
  
"You're overthinking. I can see it on your face. Breathe."  
  
"But I should be—"  
  
"Here. You should be here, getting yourself together and allowing yourself a break. You can't do everything, Dick. You're so hard on yourself and I get it's partly because the old man made us that way, but it's not exactly a good thing. That's why you keep burning out. That's why Tim crashes every March. Have you noticed that?"  
  
Dick nodded. He had. They all had, but no one really said anything about it. Every March, Tim broke down for a week. He just couldn't do it. Sometimes he'd sleep for days, sometimes he'd lash out, sometimes he'd disappear for a day and no one would be able to find him.  
  
"That's why I am the way I am. That's why the demon brat is...well, I don't even know where to begin with him. Those high standards affect all of us. Sure we all keep going and we're all fine, but really we're not. No one ever fucking talks about it, especially not Bruce, so we just float along until one of us sinks for a while. I'm here because you've been sinking trying to keep the rest of us afloat and someone needs to help you before you drown."  
  
There was a knock on the door. Dick told him where his wallet was and Jason ignored him, exchanging his own money for the pizza while Dick mulled over everything he'd said. Jason set the white box and bag of garlic knots on the table, then set off toward the kitchen for water. Dick immediately dug in. Jason was right. While the pizza didn't make him feel better, it did make him feel less like he was just existing.  
  
"Thanks," Dick muttered. "I...thanks."  
  
Jason shrugged. "It's better than having to go through this shit alone."


End file.
